


Drunk Me

by Immortal_trash389



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Yall dont know how close i was to giving dyl a motorcycle in this one i swear, based off drunk me by mitchell tenpenny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23197456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immortal_trash389/pseuds/Immortal_trash389
Summary: Dyl can't get drunk for memory purposes
Kudos: 4





	Drunk Me

My chin rested on my hand, cheek squished as I absentmindedly stirred the straw around my drink. My legs were getting numb, the edge of the barstool cutting into my legs' blood circulation.

"Hey, Jaz?" The bartender turned to me. "Could I just get a shirley temple? Alcohol's not doing it for me." She nodded, taking the glass as I pushed it over, dumping it before grabbing a new one and making my drink.

She placed it in front of me, and I paid before watching the ice as I twirled the straw again. My phone felt heavy in my pocket, reminding me of what I couldn't do. I sighed, downing the glass before tipping Jaz and leaving. 

I slid into my car, pulling my phone out. I clicked it on, hesitating over the phone app before turning it off again and starting my car. I hated not getting drunk, but knew being sober was the lesser of two evils.

Getting drunk meant calling Scott and asking if he wanted to come over. Getting drunk meant not getting over him. It meant more hurt than going at it sober. Meant winding up four steps back after two forward. Most people get drunk to get over an ex, or at least forget them for a while. I couldn't even have that luxury.

I'd downed a whole fifth of schnapps the night he left, and found myself sitting on the floor in the bathroom, sobbing into his voicemail. Wasn't my smartest decision, but then again, I didn't have many of those anyway.

Everytime I wound up more than tipsy, I found myself calling his phone, asking his voicemail if he wanted to come over. I'd stand awkwardly in my living room, phone pressed to my ear while my mind replayed our nights together. I couldn't forget those, and I'd tried. Ghosts of moans and the feeling of skin on skin kept them anchored in my mind.

Everything replayed vividly when I drank. Every moan, every touch, every sight of his face as he came, replayed as fresh as the nights they'd occurred, just messing me up worse.

So, I just didn't drink. Easy enough. Nothing helped me get over him, but it was easier to not relive the memories till I die.


End file.
